


Systole

by noero



Series: KL PWP Collection [6]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bottom Keith (Voltron), Dom/sub Undertones, Edgeplay, Knifeplay, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-21 03:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16568447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noero/pseuds/noero
Summary: Lance only wanted to please him, to impress him, to earn his attention. It never mattered what Keith asked him to do.





	Systole

“Just— Like that.”

Lance hummed in reply, the content sound vibrating around Keith’s length. Tiny little groans followed along with the lazy slide of his tongue as it swirled around, sucking cautiously on the head. Lance was noisy, even like this, with his mouth stuffed full. That detail was fitting, probably, and a reminder that this was _Lance_ of all the people Keith could take to bed with him. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t like the irony of that, at least a little bit. There was something appealing about pushing those boundaries, challenging every last fit and turn of their relationship.

“Lance,” He exhaled his name, growing impatient. The details of how and why they got here didn’t matter anymore. He wrapped a hand around the back of Lance’s sweat-dampened neck to encourage him. They were here now and that was what mattered. He all but growled, “Come— _On_ ,” and Lance only made a low sound.

When he went down on Keith, He always started out slow like that. He did those soft, careful, and tentative licks like he didn’t know if Keith might start wanting something else. But the formula never changed. 

He’d finally grow bolder when he was ready and then he’d dig his fingers into Keith’s thighs, scrape his nails all the way up to brush beneath the hem of Keith’s boxer briefs, and his teeth would drag on Keith’s length. Slow, tedious, deliberate.

That was how he granted Keith that first flicker of pain, the beginnings of bruises that would bloom in full by morning. This was a slow boil. When he’d finally get the temperature all the way up, that was when Keith shifted to tangle his fingers in Lance’s hair. That was when he started getting what he wanted. 

He gave Lance a warning, a tone teasing on the edge of a threat, “ _Lance_ —”

And as it was getting good, just getting the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, Lance pulled off. He glanced up at Keith with an impish glint in his eyes, said “Yeah— Keep talkin’ like that,” and swallowed back around him again.

He wrapped his fingers around the base, stroking where his mouth didn’t reach. When Keith sighed, he bobbed his head faster, further, and dug his nails in deeper. Back when he did this the first time, he’d been so hesitant and so unsure, but that was all long gone now. Keith was nothing but grateful as he folded himself over Lance. Time passed and it got better, more intense. They meshed better. 

The hand in Lance’s hair urged him into a rhythm and the other rubbed at the space just behind his ear as a reward for how he amped things up. Keith had told Lance he didn’t want anyone else to know about this, whatever this relationship was. He thought this sort of thing would be better that way, confined to their bedrooms and hidden far from prying eyes, but Keith didn’t know why. He’d never cared what anyone thought before and he didn’t know why this was different. He couldn’t answer Lance when he asked, couldn’t come up with a reason for why he wanted no one to know how they wanted each other.

Maybe it was because Keith wanted too much. He wanted Lance to break him, to _hurt him_ , to tear into him, to mark him, to carve red lines all over his skin. He wanted Lance to do all the things he couldn’t ask anyone else to do, all the things he could never ask Shiro to to do.

Lance only wanted to please him, to impress him, to earn his attention. It never mattered what Keith asked him to do.

“Just— _A little more_ , slower,” Keith said, voice rough and shaking, feeling himself draw closer. He never was much of a talker in bed, but he’d learned that Lance liked being given instructions. Clear ones. He worked better with direction, a plan, and some order to answer Keith’s tendency toward chaos. Keith could appreciate that, as long as he listened. “Lance— _God_ — Slow down.”

Lance flattened his tongue along the underside, took him in a little deeper but at an agonizing pace, just the way Keith liked. His fingers teased lower to rub over his balls. Keith was on that edge, right there where his legs shook a little and his nails slid up the side of Lance’s throat. Lance could pull him over easy, but then he gripped the base of Keith’s cock and pulled back again, wet mouth hovering just over him. He knew Keith didn’t want to come yet. He listened. He followed Keith’s rules.

Keith pressed his lips together with a soft whine, his palm rubbing back down the ridge of Lance’s spine. “Good,” he murmured, “You’re so good.”

“Yeah, Yeah, I know,” Lance laughed. “Nice of you think that too though.” 

He took his hands off Keith to stand between his legs. He kicked Keith’s knees further open and traced the line along his collarbone before dipping down to trail that touch over Keith’s chest. He smiled when the muscles jumped beneath his fingertips, his eyes dropping when Keith sighed. He’d always gotten off more on Keith’s pleasure than his own. “So. How do you want it tonight, boss man?”

Keith’s eyes fluttered closed to consider. Exhaustion dragged somewhere deep beneath his arousal, but he needed this. He ached, cock still twitching in interest at Lance’s touch, and he needed Lance to finish this. 

”Slow. Hard. Don’t wanna move,” he breathed, and gripped at Lance’s hips, squeezing posessively before fingering the hem of his tee shirt. He met Lance’s gaze again, his voice a low rasp, “You’re in charge.”

“Yeah,” Lance chuckled. “Roger that, mister Team Leader,” and he took one step backward and out of Keith’s grasp with a wink. 

Keith noted how Lance was visibly hard, even through his jeans. His own cock twitched in interest, peeking through his boxers. A wry grin played at Lance’s lips he pulled his shirt over his head to reveal warm, olive skin, muscles, and twenty four ribs. Keith could map each line in the burn scar on his back and he’d memorized each curve, joint, and sharp edge he had.

And eyes never leaving Lance, Keith fished a hand under his pillow and pulled out his blade. He hooked a finger into one of his belt loops to pull Lance forward again and flipped the blade around to hand it off to him. Most of all, he loved watching how Lance gripped the hilt tight and careful — almost reverent — before meeting Keith’s eyes. Lance always looked so humbled at this part, more awed than nervous. Like he could never believe Keith trusted him this much.

Sometimes Keith couldn’t believe it either.

Then Lance was on him, kissing him as he maneuvered Keith further onto the bed with one hand, the other clutching the knife like it was a priceless artifact. He bit at Keith’s lips, a small rush of blood rising for him to lick away. He paused to kick off his jeans and dig out the bottle of oil Keith kept under the bed, said “Come on now. On your stomach,” and Keith obeyed the directive without any hesitation.

No sooner had Lance settled behind him that the dagger pressed against Keith’s back, right between his shoulder blades. The touch of of the blade was cool, gentle as a soft breeze, but if he only looked over his shoulder he’d catch the sharp edge of Lance’s smile, the piercing alertness of his eyes. 

The blade slid down his spine and Lance chased the pathway with his mouth, pressing kisses behind it, one for each vertebrae. Things slowed again, Lance doing the minimal just to keep Keith hard. He wouldn’t break the skin unless Keith moved too fast, arched his back too carelessly, and every now and again, Keith was tempted. The thought left him almost giddy.

Then Lance curled the blade down his side and toward his hip instead. He trailed his mouth over his boxers and worked over the fabric, his tongue dipping in through the wet cotton. The knife was forgotten for a moment, cast aside onto the blankets so Lance could position Keith’s hips better to press even deeper. Keith swallowed, twisting his fingers into the pillow until Lance was maneuvering his underwear off of him.

He murmured soft words against Keith’s lower back as he pressed a slick finger inside him and Keith didn’t care much what words they were. In his ears, he only heard his heartbeat, loud and clear as a freight train. The finger eased deeper into him and Keith fisted his hands in the bed sheets with a muted _Oh_ and he felt the toothy smile on his back. He bent under that touch, bent until his veins felt too full.

The second finger brought along the stretch and the burn of it, and that vague discomfort that made Keith push backward. Lance began to grind against him, rocking their hips back and forth, in time with his hand. He reached around to fondle Keith — just enough to keep him hard — never enough to make him come. So when he did, when he pushed inside Keith, it was nothing short of _satisfying_ all the way down to his bones. He was full, gasping against the pillow and his legs were trembling. 

One hand fell between Keith’s shoulder blades and held him still and the other he picked up the blade. Breathy and worn, Lance asked, “Still with me boss?”

Keith shifted backward, pulled Lance deeper inside of him and dug his fingers harder into the bed. He mustered all he could in the command, voice stronger than it should be. “Do it,” he said.

A second passed, then two. Lance sucked in a heavy breath, thrust shallow, and he pressed the blade right up against Keith’s throat so he could feel his pulse hitting the metal. It was the exact right kind of threat in the right kind of way, and Keith’s body flooded with warmth, Lance’s hips snapping in deep, careful shoves. 

Lance kinda, almost hated doing this, he’d told Keith once. It was too much, too risky, but he’d do it anyway only because it made Keith groan. 

Keith never believed him. Each sharp intake of air was audible behind Keith. Lance’s fingernails dug so hard into Keith’s skin he’d have small red, crescent moons left in their wake. Lance _loved_ this. Lance _wanted_ this. He was every bit the idiot Keith was.

“Touch yourself,” Lance said, breathing more erratic than ever, but the words sounded like a command. This was when they got too much of each other. “Now.”

And when Keith did, his rhythm was off, too fast to match the agonizing and controlled pattern of Lance’s thrusts. He was too desperate, too gone, too lost in the sharp pinch at his neck when Lance nicked him a little, the move half-intentional and half not. Keith came all the same, finally — _finally_ — going over the edge.

Lance dropped the knife, folding himself over Keith, breath hot, and panting right into Keith’s ear as he came. He licked at Keith’s neck, swallowing up the memory of the blade there. Keith felt like glass when Lance did that, made him feel like he’d shatter if he broke. Like he could be put back together as something all new.

  


After they cleaned up, Keith didn’t ask Lance to leave. He’d be gone by morning, he always was, but they stayed in bed, laid back to front — Keith pressed against Lance’s chest where they could feel each other’s heartbeats. This was the only time Keith found Lance was wordless. He didn’t know what that meant, if he was too busy thinking or finally not thinking at all. 

And Keith knew then why this was different, how he wanted Lance to pull him apart, over and over, until the pieces fit together and everything made sense. He didn’t want anyone else to know about them because he wanted this thing to belong to him. He needed Lance to belong to him. No one ever belonged to him.

He squeezed Lance’s hand to his chest, warming the other side of his body from where Lance’s breath fanned over the back of his neck. Keith mumbled, sleepy and half coherent, because he needed Lance to know, even if he was the only one that ever did, “Thank you,” because for things like this, he could never ask anyone else.


End file.
